Immolation
by thread-of-string
Summary: A bear on a checkered field. The sigil of Amaranthine. These men, they're Rendon Howe's.  An origin story.


**Immolation**

It's the barking that wakes you in the middle of the night, that makes you kick away your blankets and push a hand through your hair. Your fingers snag on ribbon-bound curls, pulling some loose. Mother won't be pleased, but you'll find some way to pacify her. You always do. The barking, it's more insistent, and Tergus puts his paws up on your bed, nudging you with his nose, pulling on your sleeping gown with his teeth.

"If this is all for a mouse," you tell him, "I won't be impressed."

But there's something in the way he's looking at you that makes your insides clench tight. You throw your feet over the side of the bed, toes curling on the cool stones. Tergus has made his way to the door, is scratching at it. You pat him on the head, and open the door. Tergus rushes out.

An arrow twangs past you, and you flatten yourself against the door frame, breathing laboured, heart pounding. These men, they're soldiers, and you have enough sense to try and shut yourself inside your room, only someone's right there and crushing up against the door. Hands grab at you, and you attempt to elbow your way free, only he's in chainmail and you're only in a thin drape of cotton.

Outside the room, Tergus is fighting other soldiers. You struggle against the hands that hold you, looking to your weapons chest, looking to your leathers, but those hands, they hold tight.

"Always did think you were a pretty thing," wheezes the soldier, pushing you up against the bed. You struggle against him, only to realize that the emblem that's pressed against your chest is a bear on a checkered field and you feel your eyes sting and your heart race and the beginning of a scream lump at the bottom of your throat.

And suddenly the room is freezing, and you realize that your breasts are bare, and that your gown has fallen in tatters around your feet. One hand holds your arms above your head, while the other roams your body. Now that scream comes ripping out of your throat, and it seems to please him. He goes to remove his codpiece.

There's a moment to wonder when you stopped being a fighter and started being just a woman, and when he leans in to kiss you, your teeth bite down through his lip. Blood spurts onto your face. He reels back and you take the opening to free a hand and shove it into his nose until you hear a satisfying crunch. He's screaming now, this guard, staggering back even as you nick the dagger from his belt and slice his throat, watching red bubbles froth at your incision, hoping it hurts, hoping he wanders the Fade for eternity.

You must stand there for at least a few minutes, because you're jolted back to the present by the feel of Tergus' tongue on your hand. He's bloody, but seems unharmed. Three of Howe's men lie dead in the hall.

There isn't much time, but you pull on your leggings, and your cuirass and your greaves. Your hands pull out all the ridiculous rag ribbons from your hair, letting it fall loose around you. The sword you take up was a present from Father for your twentieth name-day. You hoist it up, safer with its weight in your hand. You jog down the hall, Tergus on your heels.

Mother bursts through the door to her apartments. She's broken out her leathers from the war.

"What's going on?" she demands. "What's with all the fighting?" Then, seeing you, seeing something on your face, she comes closer, her hand cool against your cheek. "Fainne, my love, are you all right?"

You swallow that bubble of tears that's slowly rising upwards. "Howe's men. They're Howe's."

A bear on a checkered field.

Mother staggers back. "Howe?" Her eyes scan you. "Did they...?"

You shake your head. Tergus growls beside you, nose pointed down another hall. Something like pain blooms in your chest, spiderwebbing down your body, and it's only when you hear Mother calling after you, hear her footsteps and the fear in her breathing, feel your own feet running that you realize that it's not pain, it's panic.

Rounding the corner, you come face to face with two more Howe soldiers. You slam a dagger into the first one's face, then slice the other from cock to clavicle. His insides come bursting out, steaming in a pile next to his corpse, and squishing under your boots as you bound over him and into the room and.

Stop.

The room is uneven, tilting this way and that, and the only smell is coppery and pungent and sticks to your tongue. You fall back against the wall. You almost don't notice Mother's arrival. Everything seems very far away, like Mother's sobs are echoes coming from down a very long corridor. Still, you manage a few steps before you collapse next to the small body. You brush the hair from his face, and gently pull down his eyelids. He almost looks like he's sleeping, like he's fallen asleep after you've told him the tale of Calenhad, or Garahel or some gone but not forgotten hero. You want to bundle him into your arms and sing him a song, any song, to lead him back from where he's gone.

Instead, you stand. You look at Oren. You look at Oriana. You look at Mother.

"We have to go," you say, though the words feel too large for your mouth. "We have to..." You will not cry, you will not fall to pieces, even though everything is falling down around you, even though you were supposed to be in charge, even though Father assigned you the task of protecting the castle...

Father.

"We have to find Father," you say, taking Mother's arm.

She nods, too quickly, and it's clear that though both of you started the night as forgiving people, that's not how the night's going to end. You pick up one of the soldier's swords and hand it to her. She takes it without a word, testing the hilt, swinging it twice to get a feel for it. Even as you hurry out of the room, you feel her look back. You don't. You can't.

Highever Castle is burning around you. On Cousland banners, the leaves are curling in on themselves, the blue backdrop turning to black as flames arch higher. You're ahead, slicing through unprepared soldiers, Mother following behind, making for the main hall. There is a crack from above you, a spray of embers, and Mother tugs you from beneath a falling beam, though your left arm catches, and there is the sizzling of leather. Mother frantically pats it out, and rips off the leather. The skin underneath is too pink, too raw, too puckered, and you're sure that if it's not treated, it will crack and ooze. Even if it is, you'll bear the scar for the rest of your life.

"I'm fine," you say.

Mother's look clearly states that she believes otherwise, but she grabs what's left of a nearby drapery, quickly ripping it into strips and binding your arm. "There. That will hold for now."

You want to ask what _for now_ means. Does it mean, _until we retake the castle_ or _until we are dead_? You don't, because despite the question tickling your lips, you're not sure you want to know the answer.

Fighting with only one good arm is difficult. Sweat drips down your brow as you wheel behind Mother, raise your blade to stop the mace of the soldier, kick his weak spot between thigh and groin as hard as you can, impale him through the chest as he doubles over. You wish desperately for the dagger you usually grasp in your off-hand, a hand you're now unable to close without a lightning sting zigzaging up your arm.

There's a battle in the main hall, and over the din you make out the ginger hair of Ser Gilmore – of Roland. Maybe it takes minutes to reclaim the hall, maybe hours, but at the end you're huddled down, breath wrenching out in sharp gasps. Your hair has fallen into your face, and you instinctively raise your left hand to push it away, only to have your entire arm feel as though it's on fire again. You bite the inside of your cheeks to keep from crying out, tasting blood.

Roland stands before Mother, his face the epitome of exhausted relief. "Your ladyship," he says. His eyes swing to you, linger on you, on your bandaged arm, on your face. "My lady, thank the Maker you're all right."

You want to joke with him, to ask him what about you makes him assume that you're _all right_. Is it the blood? The injured arm? The sorrowed expression? You want to ruffle your hands through his hair, to spar with him in the courtyard, for _this_ to be another mid-afternoon session instead of the nightmare it is.

You say, "Where is my father?"

His green eyes – did you ever notice before how they have flecks of gold in them? – dip down, and he sighs. "The teyrn was injured, but he was determined to find you. I believe he's headed to the servants exit in the larder."

"Then that's where we'll head," says Mother. Softer, prouder, "Thank you, Ser Gilmore."

She moves away, but you don't. You stand before Roland, memorizing the way you only come up to his shoulder, the way that one strand of hair always falls in his eyes. Your hand – the good one – touches his chest. "Come with us," you say.

He gestures to the men holding the great door shut. "I'm needed here. I can buy you time – time you need to escape."

He's right, of course. But there are so many things that haven't been said, that need to be said. You need to say that, with one possible exception, he's your closest friend. That even as you were dressing in leather leggings and men's loose shirts, announcing to the amusement of your father and horror of your mother that there was no man alive that could claim you, that would _want_ to, you looked at Roland and weren't so sure that was true. That the night of Mother's last salon, you'd seen him on duty and wondered for just a moment what it would be like to have him slide his hands under your gown, what it would be like to kiss his lips, to love him.

So you do the only thing you can do. You press your lips against his. It's as soft as the butterfly kisses Mother used to give you when you were young, but when you pull away, a tear is streaking its way down his face.

You don't say thank you. You say, "I'll remember."

Mother calls out your name, and you rush after her, pausing for half a second to take in his shape, the play of shadows and blood on his face, his single tear, and the quirk of his mouth into something that's almost a smile.

Some of the castle guards are cornered by Howe soldiers. You make a move to go help them, but Mother grabs you by the shoulder. She hisses in your ear, "I want to help them as much as you do, but we need to find your father."

When did the roles reverse? When did Mother start leading your troupe, with you following behind? She moves like a woman possessed, like she's twenty years younger than she is, like she's your sister instead of your mother. You both duck inside the kitchens, and you notice the corpses of the kitchen staff. Poor elves. And then there's Nan, slumped in the corner, head lolling at an awkward angle. She used to read you bedtime stories.

You both burst into the larder, eyes scanning for Father. From the far corner, cloaked in shadows, his voice comes out, distant and breathy, "There you both are." He tries to haul himself up, but slips. "I was wondering when you'd both get here."

Your father, your wonderful papa, the bravest, kindest man you've ever known is lying in his own blood, one hand holding in what should just naturally stay _in_. There's someone keening, _no no no no_, over and over, and it's only when you rush to his side, placing your hands over his that you recognize your own voice. His blood is spilling out over your hands, your shaking hands, his shaking body.

"Maker's breath," says Mother, cupping his face. You can hear the tears in her voice. "What's happened? Why's Howe doing this?"

There's something on your face, something itchy. You wipe at it with your upper arm, keeping your hands firmly on Father. That itchy thing, it's your tears. When did you start crying?

"We need to get you out of here," you say.

"I won't survive the standing, I think," says Father, shaking his head. Mother takes him, places his head in her lap, strokes his hair.

Some resolution grips you, despite the blood, despite the hiccoughing sobs coming from your throat. You say, "That's not true – you'll be fine!"

Father smiles at you then, the way he smiled when you asked why Andraste let herself be burned by the magisters, the way he smiled when you said that you'd never get married – a smile that says, firmly, _I love you, you are so innocent_. "If only will could make it so, pup. Yours would be enough to change the world, I'm sure."

You lean your forehead against him, feel the stick of his blood on your cheek. There's a commotion from outside.

"Howe's men are coming. They'll break through the gate soon. We need to get out of here," says Mother. She's doing a far better job than you at keeping herself together. She was, you remember, raised during a war. She's stronger than anyone ever gives her credit for, than anyone ever remembers. Stronger than you.

"Someone needs to tell Fergus what's happened," says Father.

You feel like shaking him, feel like screaming. What comes out is a whisper, "You can tell him yourself."

One of his hands, shaking and bloody, brushes your hair. "If only that were true. I won't survive it. Howe's men are surrounding the castle even now."

"I'm afraid the teyrn is correct," says a deep voice from behind you. You go from your sword, placing yourself as best you can between the intruder and your parents. It's the Grey Warden, Duncan, who emerges from the shadows, sheathing his own weapon, covered in blood. He kneels beside your father, his face grim. "We do not have much time."

"Duncan," says Father, reaching out a hand to the other man. Duncan clasps it. "I must ask you to take my wife and daughter to safety."

"Then I must ask you something in return," says Duncan, and his hand tightens around your father's. Something passes between the two men, something unsaid but dire – as if things can't get any more dire than they already are.

"Agreed," says Father, but he's not looking at you. He's looking to the ground, eyes smashed shut, tears leaking down his face. You can't ever remember seeing him cry.

The Warden came here for a recruit, and told your father that you would be a viable candidate. Your father had stepped in front of you then, defensive, and it was obvious that for all his training, he still dreamt of a future with grandchildren – your children.

He's not standing between you now, and Duncan is looking at you with something like pity.

Your heart is pounding in your hears, and you're shaking your head _no_ even though nobody's looking at you, nobody's asking your opinion. You will not leave your perfect father, who taught you to ride, and swing a sword, and shoot a bow, and dance. They can't seriously be discussing this. It is not an option.

"No, no," you say, and you've never heard your voice sound quite so shrill. "I won't do it. I won't leave you!"

"Howe will try to use the chaos to advance himself," says Father. He's still not meeting your gaze. "You must see that vengeance is done." He looks up then, and you see your own eyes looking back at you. "Our family always does its duty first. Do this for justice. Do it for Ferelden." From the look on his face, its costing him to say these things to you. He knows he's drilled them into your mind, into your very moral fabric. He knows you, knows you won't say no to this, to his call for duty.

Ferelden, the Blight, justice? These words are like offal in your mouth. You say, "I'll do it for you, Papa."

You haven't called him that since you were nine years old.

"I'm not going," says Mother. She weaves her fingers into Father's hair, holding herself to him. "I'm not leaving you, Bryce. I'll kill every bastard that comes through that door."

"No," you say, but she cuts you off.

"I'll buy you time."

Everything is happening too fast. You can't breathe. Your skin feels too tight for your body, like all of your limbs are filled with lead. Is this what heartbreak feels like? Death?

There's a crash from outside the larder, and all four of you turn towards it. Duncan says, "We have to go now." He pulls at your injured arm. You barely feel it.

You whisper, "I love you both" but somehow it sounds more like,_ I'm sorry_.

"I love you, pup," says Father. "Go make your mark on the world."

"Now," commands Duncan, pulling you along, and you start to run, staggering, stumbling steps through the servants' exit. This time, however, you do look back. You see your parents huddled together, blood mixing with tears mixing with kisses. You know that they will die there, and yet you turn away and keep running, following the sounds of Duncan and Tergus's footsteps.

You're not sure how far the three of you run, but you reach the top of a hill some leagues off, and you fall to your knees. There's something bright behind you, and you wonder if the battle took all night, if the sun has started to rise. When you turn, it's not the sun, but Highever Castle, burning. Even from here, you can hear screaming. Duncan tells you to get up, but somehow you've forgotten how to make your legs work. He scoops you up – he's about the same size as Roland, and the thought makes you laugh, makes you cry – and carries you, telling you that you survived for a reason, that you survived because of the sacrifice of your parents, that you survived.

But he's wrong. Whoever Fainne Cousland was, she died with her parents.


End file.
